Five Times Azazel's Plan Couldn't Work
by San Antonio Rose
Summary: Destiny, schmestiny. The plan for Sam and Dean always was a house of cards that would fall if even one component was out of place. Here are just a handful of what-ifs that would render it not just unlikely, but flat out impossible to implement. (AU, gen, warning for major character deaths, some spoilers for S8)
1. 1: Safe By Right

A/N: Apologies for posting this as a WIP when I have another WIP outstanding (which I hope to get unstuck on soon, honest), but at least each of these chapters will stand more or less alone. Warning for major character deaths.

* * *

Five Times Azazel's Plan Couldn't Work  
By San Antonio Rose

1. Safe By Right

Day good. Happy. Full tummy. Sleepy. Mommy kiss. Daddy kiss. Dean kiss. Happy, happy. Night-night.

Lights out. Night-night. I sleep now. Dream good.

Dream not so good.

Bad smell. Bad feel. Wake up.

Not Daddy. Bad smell. Bad feel. Bad _words_. Mommy... Mooommyyy...

"John?"

No, Mommy. Not Daddy!

"Is he hungry?"

No! Scared, Mommy! Help!

"Shh." Bad man. Snake. Want Mommy.

"Okay."

No, Mommy! Not go!

Drip—what—YUCK! BAD! BAD, BAD! MOMMY!

"YOU!" Mommy mad. Bad man. Bad man go now.

—Bad man not go?

Bad man hurt Mommy! DADDY! DEAN!

Daddy! Mommy hurt! Help!

BRIGHT! BRIGHT, HOT, LOUD! NO, BAD! OW, HELP!

Daddy help. Scared, Daddy. Bright, bright, hot, bad, no, no, no.

Dean?

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back! Now, Dean, go!"

Go, Dean! Bright, hot! Mommy hurt! Scared!

NO! NO, DEAN! NOT FALL! NO! FALL GO...

... boom?

Dean?

Why didn't it hurt, Dean?

... What happened?

Dean sits up, but he's a little bigger now. I guess I am, too, maybe. I try to sit up like a big boy, and I can.

"Sammy?"

"Uh-huh." I... I can talk. "What happened?" I can talk for real, like a big boy.

Dean shakes his head. "I dunno. I think I tripped on the stairs."

We both look around. We're at the bottom of the stairs, and there's still bright light upstairs, and I can hear Daddy screaming.

"Guess we still need to go outside," says Dean as he stands up. "When the house is on fire, you're supposed to go outside."

I don't really feel like moving, but I try to stand up like a big boy. I can. It's not even hard.

And then Mommy's there in front of us, with another lady. Mommy's still hurt—her tummy's all red. But if Mommy's here, why is Daddy upstairs still?

Mommy's crying. "I'm sorry, boys. I'm so, so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen."

Dean and I frown. "Why are you sorry, Momma?" Dean asks. "I'm the one who fell—un-... unless this is a bad dream, too."

Mommy shakes her head. "No, sweetie. I wish it were. But it's not a dream. You need to go with Miss Tessa now. I'll... I'll come find you when I can."

"What about Daddy?"

"I don't know, baby. I don't know anything." Mommy comes and gives us each a hug and a kiss. "I love you both so very much."

Mommy's cold.

"I love you, Mommy," I whisper.

Dean's crying a little. "Come with us, Momma. Please come with us."

Mommy cries harder. "I can't, Deanie. I need to wait for Daddy. But Miss Tessa will take good care of you until we come, 'kay?"

"'Kay. I love you."

Mommy kisses him again—and then she isn't there.

Miss Tessa holds out a hand to each of us. "We need to go, boys."

Dean sniffles and takes her hand. I'm confused, but I do, too.

Miss Tessa's cold like Mommy. I'm cold, too, and I don't know if I'll ever get warm.

We walk outside, and it's light out. I don't think this is where we live. It's a big field, and the grass is soft and tall, but it gets shorter, or maybe we get taller. Miss Tessa gets shorter, too. She takes us through the field and to a river, and it feels kind of scary to walk right into it, but it's not any deeper than the bathtub. And the water's warm, so warm! I don't feel cold anymore, and Dean laughs.

I'm bigger than Dean!

And oh, the sweet smells coming from the other side of the river! Flowers and good food and Mommy's perfume and things I don't have a name for. I'm not scared and sad anymore.

There's a man waiting for us on the other side of the river with dry clothes—a white bathrobe kind of thing, but maybe it isn't, because it feels like something I could wear forever. And it's got white beads on it, like what Mommy wears when she goes away with Daddy and leaves Dean and me with Miss Kate for a while. There's a great big one in the middle of my chest.

I'm all grown up! And so is Dean!

Miss Tessa nods when we're dressed. "This is as far as I go, boys. Azrael will take you the rest of the way."

"Thank you, Miss Tessa," Dean and I say at the same time. And we've got grown-up voices, too. We sound like Daddy!

Miss Tessa smiles, and then she isn't there.

"Come," says Azrael. "Let me show you to your new home."

We follow him up the hill a little ways to a tower that's so shiny and bright, it looks like it's from a story. The grass is so soft under our bare feet, and the flowers smell so good!

"They're here!" calls a lady in a window way up high. It looks like she's dressed like we are. "They're here! Sam and Dean are here!"

And suddenly there's a bunch of people running out of the tower, laughing and cheering and hugging us, pulling us forward. "You're here! Hooray! Now we will have fun! Welcome home, welcome home!" They're laughing and dancing—_we're_ laughing and dancing—and there's food all laid out on a big table that's maybe bigger than our whole backyard, and the birds are singing...

I hope Mommy and Daddy come soon. I don't think I've ever been so happy, and I hope we can stay here for always.

* * *

Flaming sword in hand, Azrael flew across the river to intercept the figure that approached. "You cannot pass."

The lion's head growled as the human head said, "Out of my way, kid."

"_No_, Zachariah."

"You don't understand. That's Sam and Dean Winchester you just let in."

"No, _you_ don't understand. They're out of your jurisdiction now."

Zachariah scowled. "What do you mean, out of my jurisdiction? Azazel completed his spell. I'm supposed to—"

"I don't care. Their place is here. The demon blood was something done to Sam's flesh; there was no time for it to affect his soul. And Dean was also still under the age of accountability. They died in innocence—and 'the innocent is ay safe by right.'" Azrael raised his sword. "The Holy Innocents are off limits for all eternity. You can't touch the Winchesters now."

The lion's head roared as the other heads snarled. "We'll see about that. I'll talk to Michael. I'll have your head!"

"You do that, _Lucifer_," Azrael shot back, unsure whether Zachariah were a true traitor or just too involved in his own scheming to recognize how much like their fallen eldest brother he was sounding. "But you're outvoted."

"By whom?"

"By Father."

Zachariah recoiled back a few paces, but the fury in his eyes didn't lessen for the confusion that also appeared in them. Azrael quickly drew a line across the path with his sword, and up sprang a wall of holy fire between him and Zachariah.

"You can't keep that up forever," Zachariah yelled.

"Try me," Azrael retorted.

Zachariah frothed and fumed, but the holy fire was an impenetrable barrier, even in Heaven. Finally, still snarling, Zachariah vanished.

Azrael sighed, extinguished his sword, and turned to the figure that had just appeared beside him inside the holy fire barricade. "I fear he may try again," he confessed.

"Let him," Gabriel growled.


	2. 2: God Made You Special

2. God Made You Special

Azazel rarely panicked. He was a ruler of Hell—essentially _the_ ruler, with Alastair busy and Lilith locked down and Abaddon gone who-knew-where. He was one of the oldest of demons, too, and had seen enough mayhem in his long tenure in Lord Lucifer's service to keep his cool under almost any circumstances. Come to think of it, the last time he had lost his composure was when a certain tomb in Judea suddenly no longer had an occupant.

No, he seldom panicked. But he was absolutely panicking now.

"Get me Lilith," he yelled into the blood-filled chalice. "Or Alastair. _Anybody_ who knows my mission."

_Azazel, my sweet_, Alastair finally answered in that toxic honeyed voice of his. _What seems to be the trouble?_

"The spell. I tried it on the Winchester boy and nothing happened. _Nothing_, do you hear?! On other, weaker specimens it takes just fine, but Winchester? Not a goat's beard!"

_Calm yourself, poppet. You're sure you did everything correctly?_

"Absolutely. And the house wasn't warded at all. Not that wards could have stopped me, given the terms of the deal, but there was nothing there, not even so much as salt at the windows. And he's human; I'll swear to that."

_I see. You'd best come home, darling child, the better to review the case._

"B-but leaving now may mean I'll miss my chance to try again."

_Who said you _have_ a chance to try again?_

And without warning, Azazel found himself back in Hell, facing a grinning Alastair. This night was so far from going according to plan, a human could fairly say it wasn't even on the same planet.

* * *

Six years later, Mary's attention was suddenly caught by the tearful howl of her younger son and the angry voice of her older. When she finally spotted the boys on the playground, Sammy was blubbering into Dean's shoulder, and Dean was telling off the neighborhood kids for picking on Sammy. Again.

"I don't wanna play with him, that's all!" one obnoxious boy shouted at Dean. "He's stupid and clumsy!"

"He's a freak!" added a girl with a spiteful streak a mile wide, as evidenced by her vicious smile when Sammy started to cry harder.

"Freak! Freak! Freak! Freak!" the other children chanted.

Mary had known this kind of heartache was coming from the moment Sammy was born. He was precious to her and Dean, and to John, too, though John had taken the news of Sammy's condition hard at first. And he was sweeter than sugar—he loved to give warm hugs and sloppy kisses, and he delighted in doing what small things he could to delight his family. But most children couldn't see past the slanted eyes, the thick tongue, the slow speech and awkward motor skills.

Yet for all the ways it hurt, Mary couldn't be sorry Sammy had Down syndrome. She had left that state of mind behind the night she came into his nursery and found him trying to spit out a glob of blood-tinged drool. One quick and unenlightening trip to the ER later, she had realized the significance of the date—the day Sammy turned precisely six months old—and the probable source of the blood. But if it was the yellow-eyed demon, why had it left its blood in Sammy's mouth, and what did it mean?

It had taken a bit of doing to find a true psychic to help her find answers, but Missouri Mosely had taken one look at Sammy and informed Mary that he was "just the way God made him." A few more questions and an examination of the nursery had given Missouri a clearer picture of what had happened, though not the reasons why the demon had tried to cast a spell on Sammy or what the spell was supposed to do. As to the failure of that spell, all either woman could figure out was that the extra chromosome in Sammy's genetic makeup had somehow kept the spell from taking effect.

"Freak! Freak! Freak! Freak!" the chant continued.

"He's _not_ a freak!" Dean screamed, hugging Sammy just as fiercely as he was being hugged. "He's just different! He's _special!_"

_Oh, Dean_, Mary thought with a wry smile as she stood to go break things up, _I pray you never learn just _how_ special our Sammy is..._


	3. 3: Guardian and Defender

3. Guardian and Defender

Uriel thought his departure from Heaven went unmarked. But Michael knew of it. Anna's summons had not been as discreet as she thought, and Michael had overheard the entire exchange. Puzzled by the insubordination, he followed Uriel at a safe distance.

Unfortunately, his own desire to escape detection meant that he arrived at the Campbell safe-house just in time to witness Anna being killed by... his future self, occupying his present-day vessel in order to have a very strange conversation with his future vessel about the Apocalypse, which seemed to be already in motion by then.

Michael hid himself carefully and watched the entire scene unfold, stunned by the change in his own demeanor. Thirty-two years were the blink of an eye from the standpoint of eternity. How could he have become so arrogant and manipulative in such a short span of time? What was about to happen to the Winchester family to bring things to such a pass?!

Once everyone involved had returned to his or her right time or place, Michael flew to Lawrence and studied John and Mary, as well as the tiny life Mary bore in her womb. Dean would have no way of remembering this night even by his first birthday, but even though his body was far from fully formed, his spirit was aware enough to startle back from Michael's presence.

_No no please help no bad get back help help_... Michael heard.

_Fear not, child_, he replied gently, and the panicked litany paused. _I'm not here to hurt you or your parents. I only want to find out what's happening._

_Not trust_, Dean returned. _Too bright. Bright hurt._

Michael veiled his power. _Better?_

Dean clearly didn't know how to respond, but his silence was skeptical.

_Will you show me what happened?_

Dean didn't let down his guard much, but his recall of the evening's earlier events was almost reflexive. He hadn't been aware of much other than Mary moving around a lot, but he had sensed Anna and she him. _It's better this way_, she had thought to him in passing. _Your brother's too much of a danger—I'm sorry, but it's better for you to die now, an only child_.

Michael was horrified. How could any angel think such a thing, let alone _Anna_, whose love for humans knew almost no bounds? And what could possibly warrant such action to prevent a crime that had yet to occur?

Dean seemed to sense Michael's reaction. _Not hurt?_

_No. I won't hurt you, little one. I won't hurt your parents, either._

_Too bright hurt._

It took a moment to untangle that one, but Michael soon realized that the only category Dean had for Mary's being knocked out and having her memory of the evening erased was "hurt"—which, by some standards, was actually correct. _I will heal what I can_, he promised.

Dean didn't quite understand that one. _Good?_

_Yes, child._

Despite his inability to prevent Michael from doing anything he wished, Dean already had a protective streak that flared to life now, and the tiny fragile body stirred as best it could to match the motion of the soul. _Not hurt. NOT._

_I promise_, Michael replied solemnly. _I will not hurt you or your parents._

Dean relaxed somewhat, but Michael got the sense that the child was watching him warily as best he could.

Turning away from Dean for the moment, Michael brushed John's mind gently and found the memory of the evening's events already gone. He did the same to Mary and likewise found the memory missing—but there were earlier memories his future self had also tampered with, though they were not wholly erased. Puzzled, he looked closer... and uncovered the nightmarish events of May 2, 1973, when Mary made a deal to trade she knew not what to Azazel in exchange for John's life.

Michael was furious. The clues were beginning to form a distinct picture that he did not like: a deal involving the second son of his vessel, a deal that would almost certainly involve corrupting the boy to make him a fit vessel for Lucifer. A plot to manipulate both vessels by sending them on a wild goose chase after Anna. Such a plan stank of Zachariah's manipulation, possibly still higher in the ranks than that—Naomi, even, he could imagine. But again, why would he himself go along with such a monstrous idea?

_Not hurt!_ Dean cried again. _Not not NOT!_

_No, child_, Michael returned, turning back to John. _Not hurt. I'm not angry with your family, only with mine._

Technically, since John had already consented to possession, Michael could have entered him without difficulty. He chose not to do so because the memory of that consent was gone and he would not take advantage of his vessel's ignorance. Yet he didn't need to go all the way in to find the latent traces of his future self's presence, which were enough to give him insight into what was to come.

And he liked that picture even less. Somehow, between now and then, he would grow weary of man's inhumanity to man and disillusioned by Father's obstinate refusal to return. Once Lucifer's vessel released him, Zachariah would present the situation to Michael as a _fait accompli_, and Michael would see no alternative but to persuade Dean to consent and allow him to kill Lucifer.

The understanding made Michael heartsick. Yes, however much he hated the idea, he would kill Lucifer when the time came. That was what Father wanted, at least as he understood it, and he would not disobey. But did it have to happen like _that?_

Yet suddenly, he realized that he had already made that future unlikely. He had promised Dean that he wouldn't hurt the Winchesters, and he refused to lie to his vessels. And this course of events would unquestionably hurt them. Michael had only to decide whether to abide by the letter of his promise and allow others to do the damage or to abide by the spirit of the promise and prevent the damage altogether.

Upon reflection, that wasn't much of a choice at all. He knew which way Lucifer would go, which meant the other had to be the right choice. All that remained was to receive John's renewed consent.

John was deeply asleep, and his dream was far from the surface of consciousness. Yet Michael was able to reach it and appear in it easily enough. John was locked in a nightmare about the fighting around Quang Nam and was startled when Michael dispatched the bulk of his now-imagined enemies.

"Uh, thanks?" John ventured.

Michael smiled. "You're welcome, John. My name is Michael. I need to talk to you."

John blinked. "About?"

"You don't remember this, but I asked you for a favor earlier tonight. I need to ask it of you again."

"You're right, I don't remember. What favor?"

"I need your permission to come in and live in you for a time. For the most part, you won't even know I'm here. You'll be in full control of your own body unless and until I am needed. But I believe you will need me soon."

"I will, huh? Why?"

"To save your family from a threat you can't fight on your own. A demon."

John frowned. "Wait, this—this is a dream. You're not real."

"This is indeed a dream, but I am most assuredly real. I am an archangel, John, but I cannot hide myself effectively from your enemy unless I hide in you. Will you let me?"

"What about..."

"I will give you privacy when you wish to lie with your wife." Michael was hardly embarrassed by sex between a husband and wife, but he had no desire to engage in it himself, never mind sire a child.

John looked at him oddly. "Lie with? What are you, some kind of Victorian?"

"No. As I told you, I'm an angel of the Lord."

"What—I don't _believe_ in angels. Why the hell am I dreaming that I'm _talking_ to one?"

"Because I'm real. John, there isn't much time. Will you let me in?"

John ran a hand over his mucky, sweaty dream-face. "You're an angel."

"Yes."

"And there's some demon coming after my family."

"Yes."

"And you want to help."

"Yes."

John huffed, looked away, and shook his head. "I still can't believe it's real. But what the hell. If it's not real, I got nothin' to lose by sayin' yes. If it is real and you're telling me the truth, then I need to say yes. But if it's real and you're lying..."

"I am the Prince of Angels. I don't lie. But I can give you no guarantee stronger than my word, in my Father's name, that I am telling you the truth. You must accept that for what it is—or not."

John looked at Michael steadily for a long moment. Then he sighed. "What the hell. Yes."

"Thank you, John." Michael smiled and withdrew from the dream. _All will be well_, he thought toward Dean. _This will not hurt your father_.

_Not hurt_, Dean repeated, as if holding Michael to his promise.

Michael nodded once and entered John, gaining control of the vessel and relinquishing it at once as he pushed back to the very back of John's mind. John woke with a start, breathing hard, but Michael didn't speak to him, only drew in on himself as far as he possibly could to minimize John's awareness of him.

_Damn_, John thought as he caught his breath. _What a freaky dream_. He looked over at Mary and saw that she was sleeping peacefully, then looked around the room and (naturally) saw no sign of Michael. _I don't even remember falling asleep—what the hell happened?_

Michael held his peace, and soon John went back to sleep.

_Good?_ Dean thought, sounding worried. _Not hurt?_

Michael assumed control just enough to use John's hand to rub Mary's belly, lightly but enough that Dean could physically sense the touch. _Not hurt_, he thought back with a gentle smile_. Good._

Finally, finally, Dean relaxed. _Good yes._ And he fell asleep.

* * *

The next five years flew past, even from a human perspective. Michael kept his promise to John, leaving his body and standing guard over Dean during times when John and Mary had sex but otherwise remaining in that tiny corner of the back of John's mind as a silent observer. Rarely did he give in to the urge to try to influence John's behavior, usually only when John was being unusually pigheaded and hurtful toward Mary and ignoring the way it affected Dean. Yet even then, Michael did no more than whisper a suggestion or two—almost never as strong as a rebuke.

When Mary went into labor on May 2, 1983, however, Michael knew that the time for him to act was drawing near. Sam was a beautiful child, especially seen through John's eyes, and Michael found it hard to believe that his brothers and sisters could see no more potential in Sam than his supposed role as Lucifer's vessel. There was so much else for him to do, to be! Michael simply couldn't let the plan proceed—nor could he sit idly by while John's relationship with Mary became strained. The more determined John became to leave, even for a short time, the more vocal Michael became in convincing him to stay for the sake of the boys. Persuasion still worked, but Michael knew it was probably best for all of them that his presence would be required only a few more months.

The night of November 2 finally arrived, and Michael bided his time as John and Mary put their sons to bed. Mary chose to go on to bed herself, while John chose to go downstairs to watch one of his favorite movies on television. But as John began to nod off, Michael sensed Azazel's approach, and he unfolded himself from his hiding place at long last, though he kept his power closely veiled. Once he had control of the vessel, he rose from the couch quietly and switched off the television, then walked up the stairs with John's usual tread so as not to alarm Mary or Dean.

Azazel appeared just as Michael walked into Sam's nursery. The demon smirked, supposing him to be John, and tried to throw him against the wall. When that didn't work, Azazel scowled. "What the hell?"

"Not at all," Michael returned and snapped his fingers, moving the crib instantly into the master bedroom. Then he unfurled his wings and manifested his sword.

"Michael," Azazel breathed, wide-eyed. "What—how—y-y-you don't understand—"

"Oh, I understand my brother's plan. I disapprove. This ends now." And before the discussion could continue, Michael rammed his sword through Azazel's borrowed heart and watched dispassionately as the demon fell and died.

John was, at this point, wide awake and terrified. So were Mary and Dean, who'd been awakened by Azazel's death cry and came running. "John!" Mary gasped. "What on earth—"

Michael turned to face her. "I'm not John—not at the moment, anyway. He is here and unharmed. But you'd better call the police to come deal with this," he added, gesturing down at the body.

"What—who is that?"

"The man he was did not deserve this fate, and I regret I could not spare him. But he was possessed... by the yellow-eyed demon, Azazel."

Mary gasped loudly. "H-he c-c-came—but th-the deal was..."

"The deal was for entrance into your house on the night it was due, and should there be an infant newborn or under the age of six months, he could return on the night the child turned six months old."

"To—to steal? He said—"

"No, not to steal the boy, though that is what you should tell the police." Michael glanced down at Dean briefly. "His true purpose is not for a child's ears. But it involved blood—and had you interrupted, you would have died."

Dean cried out in distress and hugged Mary with all his might.

Mary struggled for composure for a moment as she hugged Dean as best she could without letting down her guard. When she could, however, she asked, "Who are you? _What_ are you?"

"I am Michael."

"The _archangel?!_" both mother and son yelped, and Dean turned his head to look wide-eyed at Michael without letting go of Mary.

"Indeed so." And Michael showed them the shadows of his wings. "Don't be afraid," he added as he veiled his wings again. "My only purpose here was to stop Azazel. John is my vessel, but I will return him to you whole and well once this night is past. Sam will be out of danger then."

_He damn well better be!_ John exploded. _And you'd damn well better tell us how to keep those things out of our house!_

"I will set wards," Michael promised, unable to keep from chuckling. "They need not be visible to be effective."

Mary sighed. "I should have known it was too good to be true. You can leave the life, but the life never leaves you."

That startled John. _What the hell is she talking about?_

Michael ignored him. "Mary, this isn't simply about hunting. Your family is a unique case—Winchester as well as Campbell. You don't have to raise your children as hunters; you do have a choice. But that said, teaching them and John some basic means of defense against the supernatural would be wise. You should not leave them unprotected."

She nodded slowly.

"We can speak more of this later. First, we must deal with the police." Michael snapped his fingers again, raising wards at the same time he returned the crib and a very distraught Sam to the nursery and caused the window to look like it had been forced open.

Mary nodded more decisively this time. "Can you take them downstairs?" she asked, meaning Dean and Sam. "I can call from the bedroom phone."

"Sure." Michael turned and gently retrieved Sam from the crib, then took Dean's hand and took both children down to the living room while Mary went to call the police.

Sam's cries quieted somewhat as he rested against Michael's shoulder, but his mind did not. Michael could hear him trying to make sense of things: _Daddy—not Daddy—bright bright, smell wrong, move fast, Daddy hands, Daddy hug—not Daddy—good? Bad feel, bad man... bad man go. Daddy here, Daddy good. Not Daddy. Scared. Want Daddy._

_Aw, Sammy, I'm right here, buddy_, John thought back, though of course Sam couldn't hear him. _Dammit, Michael, can't you see he needs me?_

_Let us get settled_, Michael replied. _Then you may have control until the police come._

But once they were down in the living room, Dean hesitated to sit down on the couch beside Michael. Instead he stood staring up into Michael's face, wide-eyed and silent.

Michael smiled gently at him. "Don't be afraid, Dean."

"Are you really a angel?" Dean asked so quietly a mortal would barely have heard him.

Michael nodded. "Yes, I am."

"Why are you wearing my daddy?"

"I could not have appeared here in my true form without hurting anyone. My voice would leave you deaf. My face would burn your eyes. And while you don't remember it now, I promised you a long time ago that I wouldn't hurt your family."

"When?"

"Before you were born."

Dean inched closer. "Is my daddy in Heaven?"

Michael put his free hand on Dean's head. "No. He's right here. I need to be the one to talk to the police, but I'll let him speak to you until then."

"An'... after that... are you gonna stay?" Michael wasn't sure whether that question was asked in hope or fear, and he didn't think Dean was sure, either.

The answer was the same either way, however. "No. I need to go back to Heaven."

"Oh." There was definite disappointment then, as well as relief that John would be himself again.

Michael ran his hand down to rest on Dean's cheek. "But I can send another angel to be your guardian, if you like. You wouldn't be able to see him, but he would be here. Would you like that?"

Dean's eyes lit up a little. "I think so. What's his name?"

"Castiel. He's been curious about humans for a long time. I think he'd like you."

"Castyul. Could I call him Cas?"

"I don't see why not."

Dean began to smile. "'Kay. That sounds awesome."

Michael smiled back. "It's a deal, then. And your father and I are connected now. If ever you need me again, he can call for me, and I'll come."

"'Kay. Can I talk to Daddy now?"

"All right." And Michael withdrew his control.

John gasped as he felt the shift, looking at Dean with eyes as wide as his son's. Then he looked around wildly, gulping down deep breath after deep breath.

"Daddy?" Dean asked.

John looked back down at him again. "Yeah. Yeah, buddy, it's me."

"AAAAH!" cried Sam as Dean yelped "DADDY!" and scrambled into John's lap.

John crushed both boys against his broad chest, unable to hold back tears. "Oh, Sammy, Deano..."

And Dean hugged back just as fiercely. "Daddy, Daddy, you're okay, you're okay!"

"Oh, baby boys... we're safe, thank God, thank God..."

Mary came in at that point and gasped. "John?!"

John turned to her and sobbed, "Mary..."

"John!" She rushed to the couch and hugged John and both boys at once, and both adults wept together for a moment.

"Are you okay, Daddy?" Dean finally asked.

John swiped at his face to rub away the tears and nodded. "Yeah. Pretty freaked out, but I'm okay."

"And Michael?" Mary wondered.

"He's still here. He'll be back when the cops get here. Mary, this _power_... I don't... I can't get my head around it. I can feel his _wings_."

And though Michael wasn't sure at that moment whether it was by his will or John's, said wings wrapped protectively about the huddled family.

"John, how... how did he..."

John shook his head. "There was some dream I had a few years back, before Dean was born, where he asked me. I think I said yes—but I d-... I didn't think it was real." His eyes widened. "What else is real?"

Now it was Mary's turn to shake her head as she ran a comforting hand over Dean's head. "More than you know. So many things I didn't want you and the boys to have to know about. Oh, John, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault..."

"Shh. Hey." He pulled her closer and kissed her. "Michael saved us. It's okay. It's okay."

And thus they sat, holding one another and crying quietly, until the police arrived. Then, as Mary went to answer the door, Michael took over again and answered all of the officers' questions with believable answers. Mary backed his story with a hunter's practiced ease, and even Dean, when asked why John had killed the intruder, said only, "He was gonna hurt Sammy."

When the forensics team arrived, however, one member stopped short of coming into the house and volunteered to examine the evidence on the front lawn. Then, once everyone else was out of earshot, she tried to convince Michael to bring Sam outside.

"I think not," Michael replied. "And don't think I need my sword to deal with you, Megara."

The possessed technician hissed, her eyes going black. "Michael!"

"The plan has failed. You will not touch this child."

"He's ours! He's OURS!"

"GO TO HELL!" he commanded, and the demon shrieked and came out, at which point the technician fainted dead away.

John was stunned. _Is it always that easy?_

Michael chuckled inwardly and moved back toward the living room while one of the coroner's aides checked on the technician. _Only for me. Mortals would need to use an exorcism. And there are few weapons that a mortal can wield that would kill any demon, let alone one as strong as Azazel or Megara. I advise you not to try._

_What about... the other things? The things Mary won't talk about in front of Dean?_

Michael paused. _John, what is it you truly want? For me to hand you all the answers, or for Mary to work with you and help you learn them on your own?_

John pondered that question as the coroner's team finally removed the body of Azazel's host from the house. Then, instead of answering it, he asked, _It was you, wasn't it, keeping me here? Making me work things out with Mary?_

_I didn't force you. I could have—if necessary, I would have. But you do love her, as you love your sons. You simply needed a different perspective._

_I almost lost her tonight. I... I could have... h-how could I have made it without her?_

_You'd have managed_, Michael answered honestly. _Not well, perhaps. You would have become a hunter, driven by fear for your children and vengeance over Mary's death. You would not, of your own accord, have been able to prevent Azazel's plan for Sam from coming perilously close to fruition. But however much the life would have hurt them, you would have succeeded in raising strong, honorable sons who would, in the end, have done the right thing._

John sighed mentally. _I don't want that. I... I know I'm... not the easiest person to like. Sometimes I... hell, I don't know how to be a dad and not a DI. I want the boys raised right._

Michael just managed not to tilt his head physically. _For that, they need both you and Mary. Neither of you can do as well alone as you both can together._

_But I want them safe, too, Michael. So how do I do both? How do I... I mean, you said we don't have to do this hunting thing, but..._

_Talk with Mary. Really talk, and listen to what she tells you. Be open and honest with one another. And decide together what to do with what she knows. So long as you both determine to work together come what may, you will do well._

John would have taken a deep breath and let it out again had he been able. _So the other stuff—I should learn it from Mary?_

_And from others. The Campbells are not the only hunters in this country. I believe the owner of Singer Salvage Yard in Sioux Falls would be a good friend to have, professionally as well as for hunting. And John, don't shield your sons from this knowledge forever. Give them the freedom to choose what to do with what they know, as I am giving you, and don't burden them too soon. But ignorance will not save them._

John took the mental equivalent of another deep breath. _Okay. I'll do my best_.

Michael smiled. _Then you'll do well._

At long last, well after midnight, the police finished their work, returned Michael's sword to him, and left. Michael helped Mary put the children to bed once more, renewing his promises to Dean to send Castiel and to come to their aid if there was again great need. And finally, he walked with Mary back to the master bedroom.

"I'll take my leave now," he told her. "Even should any demon be able to breach these wards, it's too late for Sam's blood to be corrupted. You should be safe."

Mary sighed deeply. "Michael, how can I thank you?"

"Be honest with John. Hold nothing back from him. And choose with him how to live hereafter."

She nodded. "I just wanted a normal life."

He smiled. "Normal, to quote one of your comediennes, is only a setting on the dryer."

That got a smile out of her.

"As I told Dean, there is an open line between John and me now. I will know and come if I am needed. But I doubt the need will be that great. So long as you work together, being honest with one another and serving each other and your children as best you can, you will not need to fear the future."

After a brief hesitation, she hugged him. "Thank you. _Thank you_."

He rubbed her back. "Fare you well, Mary Winchester." And he departed, leaving his vessel in the arms of his beloved.


	4. 4: Arise and Seize the Day

A/N: I forgot to mention it in the last chapter, but these last three parts are from prompts by jennytork.

* * *

4. Arise and Seize the Day

This Dean kid was talking crazy, Samuel thought, but he was so insistent that Samuel gave in and looked at the journal Dean said had belonged to his psychic dad. Sure enough, there was a list of names that included Charlie Whitshire, Liddy Walsh, and a handful of other names from the area that sounded vaguely familiar.

Samuel was still trying to decide what to make of it all when suddenly there was a third man at the table.

Dean startled back. "Castiel, what the hell—"

"Something's gone wrong," the new arrival, Castiel, said in a grave, gravelly voice that might have held a hint of panic. "We need to leave _now_."

"What the—we can't _leave!_ Not when I'm this close!"

"Dean, it doesn't matter." Definite panic, it was obvious now. "None of it matters. We have to get out of here." And before Dean could object again, Castiel grabbed him by the shoulder... and they vanished in a gust of wind and a sound like a giant bird flapping its wings.

But Samuel didn't have time to dwell on that. The gust of wind also ruffled the pages of the journal that Dean hadn't had time to take with him—and said pages immediately began to crumble to dust that Samuel couldn't even grasp when he grabbed at it. In seconds the journal's rings were empty, and within seconds of that the journal itself began to fade and dissolve. He had just enough time to get a good glimpse of the medals and ribbons pinned to the inside of the front cover before the space where the journal had been was as blank as if it had never been there. Samuel let out a quiet curse and then tried to place the decorations he'd seen in the hope they could give him some clue as to the identity of the journal's owner.

Marine Expert Rifle badge. Bronze Star, Purple Heart. Good Conduct Medal...

... Vietnam Service Medal.

That made no damn sense.

It was possible Dean had lied and the journal, and therefore the medals, were his. But no, "my dad wrote down" had fallen far more readily from the kid's lips than "my dad could see the future" had. Yet he was in his late twenties at least—if the medals were his dad's, how the hell did he have only the VSM and only enough decorations for a...

... a Marine corporal who'd been wounded in action...

... somebody like John Winchester.

"Sam?" Deanna prompted.

Samuel took a deep breath. He didn't know what to make of any of what he'd just seen and heard, but there was only one thing to do in the short term: go to ground. "Mary!" he bellowed. "Grab your gear and get down here!"

Mary appeared at the top of the stairs, frowning. "Dad, what in the world—"

"Dean was right. We're going to the safe house _now_."

"Whu-well, where is Dean?"

"Gone. Something grabbed him."

Mary's eyes widened. "Here?!"

"We're not waiting around to find out why. Grab your bags!" Samuel paused. "And... and bring John."

Mary's eyes widened further, but she didn't argue, just ran to obey.

Deanna put a hand on Samuel's back. "You sure?"

"No," he confessed. "But I'm not taking any chances. If something is after John, he needs protection, too."

Deanna kissed his cheek. "I'll get supplies. You get clothes. We can call Ed and Rob from the safe house."

* * *

Charlie Whitshire frowned in confusion. "But I told all that to the priest this morning."

"All what?" the man in the black suit asked.

"All about the man who showed up an' asked me if I wanted the beatings to stop. An' the fact his eyes looked yellow for a minute."

The man in the black suit tilted his head back and regarded Charlie thoughtfully. "This yellow-eyed man. What did you promise him?"

"Nothin', I swear! He just said he might come a-callin' in ten years and want somethin' then."

"I see. Now, I know this is an awkward question, lad, but I'm afraid I've got to ask. Did he make you kiss him?"

Charlie's cheeks flamed scarlet, and he didn't answer.

"What about this priest? What did he look like?"

"Real tall, short brown hair, green eyes, lotsa freckles."

"Did he ask any... pointed questions?"

"Just about what the man wanted, and were his eyes black or red or anything."

"Hmmm. Well. Thank you for your time."

Charlie nodded and went back to the house as the man in the black suit walked toward the road.

"Well?" asked a woman's voice from the shadows near the gate.

"You were right, luv," Crowley replied. "Azazel's gone into business for himself, and he's got hunters on his trail."

"What about the angel?"

"The boy didn't know, but I'll wager you weren't seeing things. His description of the hunter matches yours."

The crossroads demon stepped out of the shadows, her black cocktail dress making her host's pale skin stand out in the moonlight. "Are you reassigning me?"

Crowley shook his head. "No. But Azazel has got to be stopped. I don't know what he's after, but he's attracting too much attention."

"But he's almost as powerful as Lilith. Even as King of the Crossroads, how can you hope to oppose him?"

He smirked. "I shan't do it alone. You see if you can find out where he'll be. I'll call on the union."

She bowed and vanished.

Moments later, a hapless vagrant disappeared into a side alley in one of Lawrence's worse neighborhoods just in time to provide Crowley with the blood he needed to phone home. Half an hour or so after that, a cloud of smoke descended upon the vagrant's cooling corpse; the demon quickly erased all sign that the body's throat had been cut, then stood.

"Shea," Crowley said by way of greeting. "How'd it go?"

The spirit who in life had been Cornelius Shea, first president of the Teamsters Union, smirked. "Like clockwork. You give the word, and he goes down."

Crowley chuckled. "Excellent."

Just then the junior crossroads demon returned. "He's in Haleyville," she reported. "Family named Walsh—the father has cancer, and the daughter's despair... I could sense it a mile off. I think Azazel's waiting for the doctor to come visit tomorrow."

"Haleyville," Crowley mused. "Right. Shea, find out when that appointment is. And have everyone—and I mean _everyone_—there."

Shea grinned. "On it."

* * *

The next night, Azazel made his pitch to Liddy Walsh, claiming he would ask her for something in ten years. But her response surprised him a little: a sniffly "Is... is that all?"

He nodded. "That's all."

"And d-do I have to kiss you or something?"

"Well, Liddy, I'm flattered—"

"Only... it's too late."

"Too late? What do you mean?"

"I already kissed someone else." And as her expression smoothed into a cold smirk, her eyes turned blood red.

Azazel recoiled, but before he could say anything, a whirlwind of demon smoke surrounded the house and shook it with the sheer force of its malice. The door flew open, and Crowley strolled in, looking supremely pleased with himself.

"Crowley," Azazel growled, "will you kindly explain what you're doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Crowley replied.

"It's none of your concern."

"Oh, no. This is very much my concern. You've been making irregular deals, mate."

"On Lucifer's orders."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "Oh! La di dah! And just what proof of these orders do you have?"

"I don't answer to you, you little pipsqueak."

"Ah, but you do, you see. Hell has rules, and one of those rules is that _we_ make the deals. Another is that deals can't attract attention."

"So what?"

"So the Campbells know about your little game. And so do the angels."

"And you know this how?"

"There was an angel in Lawrence two days ago."

"That's not possible."

"Really? One of my girls saw him with her own eyes, _and_ he was talking to a hunter who's been questioning the Whitshire boy."

Azazel stood. "You have no idea what you're interfering with, _tailor_."

"I don't care. Whatever it is, it's bad for business. And we won't stand for it."

Azazel lunged at Crowley, but the demon possessing Liddy billowed out of her and forced itself into the doctor Azazel was occupying. More demons rushed into the house and into the doctor until, by sheer force of numbers, they were able to overpower Azazel and drag him out of his host and back to Hell. The remaining demons followed, and soon Crowley was left alone with a petrified Liddy and an unconscious doctor.

"He'll come 'round in a moment, ducks," Crowley assured Liddy. "Be right as rain in an hour or two. Now, after I leave, paint this"—here he handed her a sheet of paper with a devil's trap drawn on it—"on the ceiling over your doors and line the windows with salt, and you'll be safe enough."

She struggled to speak for a moment. "Is... is it really over?"

"It is. Your da's fine. And you'll not hear from me again. Mind you, I've let you off cheap, not asking for more than that short little possession in exchange for that healing—but then, I really did need your help for this." He patted her cheek. "Cheers, luv." And he left, satisfied in the knowledge that she'd be having nightmares about him for the rest of her life... which now promised to be very long indeed.


End file.
